


i could hear the chitchat

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: i wish we had more time (ws!steve trevor) [3]
Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Gossip, POV Outsider, Recovery, Winter Soldier AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: “Maybe he’s running away from something,” says Katie, letting her imagination carry her away. “Maybe he thought she was the best person to come to with his problems, maybe he wanted a job and she was offering one, maybe—”“—maybe you guys should lock the door next time you’re gossiping, yeah?”or: five (mostly) outsider POVs on Diana and Steve, in the 21st century.





	i could hear the chitchat

**Author's Note:**

> title from Neon Trees' "Everybody Talks".

i. Interns gossip.

Well, everyone gossips. The board gossips, sometimes, about world leaders and Kardashians and Hollywood. Everyone else gossips about the same things, and their coworkers on top of it.

Interns just happen to do it more, and Katie Rosenberg should know. She’s one—working in the Louvre’s department dedicated to Greco-Roman arts. Technically she is here to gain experience in her classics major, but as the days go by she suspects she’s really just here to fetch coffee and occasionally play errand girl.

She doesn’t mind. It’s good work she’s doing here, and she likes her friends.

Still, sometimes one can’t help themselves from trying to make their own entertainment. And one of the easiest ways is speculating on Ms. Prince—the calm, collected de facto leader of the department. Technically she answers to Mr. Bouvier, but everyone’s learned long ago that Ms. Prince’s word is pretty much law, around here.

Anyway, Ms. Prince. Her origins are the subject of speculation in the department, and in the time she’s been here, Katie has heard a number of rumors, ranging from the plausible (like Amélie’s assertions of Ms. Prince coming from some tiny little village in Greece) to the downright ridiculous (looking at you, _James_ ).

Personally, Katie’s pretty sure Ms. Prince hails from somewhere outside of Greece, if only because that would be the height of irony. She’s sure Ms. Prince would go to all the trouble of maintaining a Greek accent, just for the aesthetic of it. She seems like that kind of person.

Anyway, it’s lunch break, and she’s enjoying her soufflé when Bodhi opens the door and says, breathlessly, “Did you guys know that Ms. Prince got herself a new secretary?”

Kamala from Islamic Arts looks up from her Captain Marvel comic, fixes up her shawl, and says, “Wait, really?”

“I just met him,” says Bodhi. “He was sitting in Ms. Prince’s office reading one of her books. It was _so weird_.”

Katie glances up at him. “She actually got herself a secretary?” she says. “Like, Ms. Prince went out and hired a secretary without the museum interfering?”

“Apparently, yes,” says Bodhi, slumping into a chair. “He was pretty nice.”

“I can’t believe it,” says Kamala. “Ms. Prince got a _secretary_. How did that even happen?”

“I didn’t ask,” says Bodhi. “He looked a little scruffy and beaten down, so I guess she decided to be nice to him.” Which wouldn’t surprise Katie, Ms. Prince has been known to do that kind of thing. She just hasn’t heard of anyone picking up a guy and hiring them as a secretary before.

She says, “Is that even legal, though?”

“Probably,” says Kamala. “Hey, maybe he’s a friend of hers who lost his job, so she offered him a new one.”

“Plausible,” says Bodhi, lighting up and leaning forward. Gossipy hen. “Maybe they grew up together!”

“Maybe they were best friends in childhood, drifted apart, and then she just saw him on the street one day and offered him a job out of sentimentality,” says Katie, pointing her soufflé at the other two.

“He also looked pretty handsome,” says Bodhi, “so, um, maybe there’s something else there.”

“How handsome?” says Kamala. “Handsome enough to get someone to hire him right off the bat?”

“Ms. Prince wouldn’t just hire someone because they’re hot,” says Katie, frowning. “No, I’m still pretty sure they’re at least college friends.”

“Exes,” says Bodhi. “They’re probably exes. Maybe they broke up pretty badly and this is her way of forgiving him.”

“Or revenge,” says Kamala. “Remember the last secretary she had?”

As one, they all shudder. Katie remembers Clancy Barnes, and how he and Ms. Prince deeply disliked each other. Those had been dark, dark days for the department. “Poor guy,” she says. “But I’m pretty sure she’s not that vindictive. She never even raises her voice when she’s disappointed.”

“Still waters run deep,” Bodhi quotes.

“Maybe he’s running away from something,” says Katie, letting her imagination carry her away. “Maybe he thought she was the best person to come to with his problems, maybe he wanted a job and she was offering one, maybe—”

“—maybe you guys should lock the door next time you’re gossiping, yeah?” someone says, and all three of them whip around to see a man, clad in jeans and a t-shirt, with a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. “Just in case your subject comes by, y’know.”

Katie makes a panicked noise in the back of her throat.

Bodhi says, shaking in his worn shoes right beside her, “Um. Hi. Mr. Trevor.”

“Just Steve, you guys,” says Ms. Prince’s new bestubbled, blue-eyed secretary. Katie is both kind of into that and kind of freaking out, because how the _hell_ does someone sneak up on them like that? What kind of secretary did Ms. Prince hire, a freaking _ninja_? “This is where you keep the coffee, right?”

“Um, yeah,” says Kamala, the first of the three of them to recover her courage. “But I wouldn’t trust the coffee here. Richie substituted it with decaf last week.”

“De-what?” says Steve, brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Decaffeinated coffee,” Katie explains.

Steve’s eyes grow wide in horror. “Why would anyone do that to coffee?” he asks. “That just defeats the whole _point_ of it.”

“Yes!” Bodhi exclaims, forgetting to be nervous as he jumps to his feet and points at Steve. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been saying for _years_!”

“Three years,” Katie mutters, biting into her soufflé.

Steve shakes his head, as if somehow the existence of decaffeinated coffee is a new and horrifying revelation to him. Weird, but hey, Katie herself hadn’t known anything about the twist in _Citizen Kane_ until a year ago. Sometimes people just don’t know things.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says, like this has shaken his entire world to its very core.

“Yeah, me too,” says Bodhi, sympathetically. “Except without Jesus Christ.”

“I do know a place that serves some good and cheap coffee, though,” Katie volunteers. It’s also a place that serves kosher food, which is something that more than makes up for the fact that it’s pretty cramped around this time of day. “It’s just a ten-minute walk away.”

“Can you take me there?” says Steve. “It’s just that I’m a little new to Paris, myself, and I could use some help figuring out where all the best places are.”

“Oh, sure,” says Katie, cheerful. Then she pauses and asks, “Will Ms. Prince mind?”

“Diana’s been dragging me around Paris all morning to all her favorite restaurants, so, no, I don’t think she’d mind that much if one of her interns did it,” says Steve. “Anyway, the more the better, right?”

Katie stares at him a moment, the pieces fitting together in her head. The casual use of Ms. Prince’s first name, the mention of Ms. Prince bringing him to all her favorite restaurants, the fact that she got him a _job_ —

Oh. Oh, they’re probably _exes_.

\--

The next time Katie sees Steve and Ms. Prince, the two of them are talking in hushed whispers outside of the museum, as Katie’s carrying a box of files to another wing. She stops for a moment to watch, unable to resist.

Ms. Prince smiles, soft and sweet and genuine. Katie’s only seen that smile a grand total of three times before, and all of them were whenever she had just acquired an intact artifact, or a show had gone very well and everything was going right. She’s never seen it directed towards anyone before.

Steve ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck. He reaches out to take the arm she’s offering him, fingers loosely curling around her elbow. He smiles as well, soft and incredibly grateful, like he can’t quite believe this is happening to him of all people.

Katie leaves first, but she can’t get the image out of her head, can’t unsee the way the two of them looked at each other, as if all had finally been set right with the world.

The next day she says to Bodhi, “I think they’re dating.”

“They’re _what._ ”

\--

ii. Gustave’s neighbor is a weird one.

Don’t get him wrong, he likes Mlle. Prince just fine. She’s a lovely woman to chat with, even though she’s always busy and dashing off somewhere, but what kind of woman spends all her time looking at clay jugs and funny pots in a museum? Sheesh.

And lately she’s taken in some scruffy hobo off the streets, which—well, Gustave didn’t exactly peg her for the bleeding-heart type, but people are complicated and have multiple layers, something about onions.

The point is, Gustave has lived in this building for close to a year and he’s _still_ not sure what to make of Mlle. Prince.

And he’s even less sure what to make of her new roommate.

He meets the man when he comes over to Mlle. Prince’s apartment to ask for a cup of sugar. He’s out of sugar, you see, and it’s really quite frustrating because he has a visitor coming over tonight, and—

—well, Mlle. Prince always has _some_ sugar on hand. So Gustave knocks on her apartment door.

“ _Monsieur_ Lacroix!” says Mlle. Prince, as she opens the door. “ _Bonsoir._ ”

“ _Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,_ ” says Gustave, bowing slightly, unable to resist a little flourish of his hand. “May I ask a favor of you?”

“Hey, Diana,” calls a man from the kitchen, and Gustave stands on his tiptoes to look over Mlle. Prince’s shoulder to see a young man, with some slight stubble on his chin and a shirt a little too big for him, ambling out of the kitchen, “I think we’re out of milk—”

Mlle. Prince turns and says, “Oh, right, that. I’ve been meaning to get on that.”

Gustave stares at the man for a second too long, gobsmacked. Where did Mlle. Prince pick him up, he wonders, hysterical. He didn’t even _know_ Mlle. Prince had any interest in romance.

“Um, hi,” says the man. Good lord, he sounds American.

“Who is that?” says Gustave.

Mlle. Prince looks up at the ceiling and gives a tired sigh. “Gustave, this is Steve,” she says. “He’s a friend of mine who fell on hard times. Steve, this is Gustave, he’s my neighbor.”

“ _Bonsoir,_ ” says Gustave, squinting at Steve. “ _Parlez-vous français, monsieur?_ ”

“Some,” Steve answers. “ _Je parle mieux anglais que français._ ” Jesus, the man’s accent practically bleeds through into every word. “Wait, do you have milk?”

“No,” says Gustave, still a little stunned at his very presence in Mlle. Prince’s apartment. “I just need a cup of sugar, that’s it,” he tells Mlle. Prince. “And as it just so happens, I have an extra carton of milk, I’m willing to trade you for it.”

Diana nods, says, “I’ll take that trade.”

\--

“Bastian. _Bastian._ ”

Bastian, dear sweet Sebastian, gives a tired grumble and rolls over in bed. “ _Mi corazon,_ I love you, but I swear to god I’m going to kill you if you woke me up without my coffee,” he says, without opening his eyes.

“I understand,” says Gustave, gravely. It’s eight in the morning, and normally he wouldn’t wake Bastian up so early, but. Well. Some things warrant early awakenings. “Your coffee’s in the kitchen, and also, I just ran into _Mademoiselle_ Prince’s boy.”

Bastian sits up. “The white guy with the blue eyes and the stubble and the name Steve?” he asks.

“Him,” says Gustave.

Bastian mutters something in Spanish, pinches the bridge of his nose, and says, “Seriously? It’s _eight in the morning_ , why would he be up?”

“He was trying to surprise his girlfriend,” says Gustave.

Bastian stares at him. “Oh, no,” he says.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

Gustave huffs, shakes his head, climbs into bed beside Bastian. “Doing what again, _cherie?_ ” he asks.

“You’re speculating on other people’s love lives,” says Bastian, shoving lightly at his arm. “ _Dios_ , you’re worse than my Mama sometimes. It’s like you two just live for the drama.”

“I have to make some entertainment somehow!” Gustave protests.

Bastian scowls at him. “And I’m not enough entertainment for you, is that it?” he asks.

“—all right, that came out wrong.” He inches closer, wraps Bastian in his arms. “Let me make it up to you, hm?”

“You are not going to make it up to me by giving me a morning— _madre de Dios._ ”

\--

iii. Honestly, if Jeff’s asked, he’d say he envisioned his Saturday morning going much more excitingly than this. For one thing, tracking a renegade asset in Paris? It’s just not something he wants to do on a weekend. For Christ’s sakes, weekends are supposed to be for sleeping in and watching movies, not tracking something that’s slipped its leash.

But here he is, and here they are. He checks his gear again, rereads the list he’s been given and murmurs the words to himself. _Dilitírio_ —the trigger word that’ll bring in their wayward weapon.

Wherever the hell he is. He’s _good_ , is the thing, has spent the last few months slipping away from LexCorp’s grasp, but now he’s slipped up, planted roots. Now Jeff and his team can finally bring him in.

“Think he’s gonna fight it?” says Mike, as Jeff slips his jacket on, concealing his weapons.

“Nah, buddy,” says Nick, cleaning his nails with a penknife. “He’s programmed not to.”

“He’ll come with,” says Jeff. “I’ve seen it used before. Soon as you say the word, _poof._ ” He snaps his fingers. “Like a well-trained dog.”

“Yeah, but he’s been gone for _months_ ,” says Mike. Jeff doesn’t bother to stop himself from rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. Fucking scientists. “I’m just saying, there’s a chance that with the lack of wipes, he’s gained a measure of resistance.”

“Y’know, I heard a pretty funny story from my good ol’ gramps about that,” says Nick, smiling. “He went to Veld once, right? Disappeared for two weeks, when he turned up he was near London, and damn did he fight like hell.”

“I told you—”

“Before Gramps said the word,” says Nick, smiling even wider. “Then he just went still and quiet.”

“Nick’s got a point,” says Jeff.

“I just don’t know if it’ll work all that well,” says Mike, wringing his hands. God, Jeff is tempted to slug him, but Mike’s know-how is potentially useful. Just in case.

“It’ll work,” says Jeff.

\--

It works.

He catches their guy waiting outside a café, sipping on a kale shake, and it’s just a matter of striking up a conversation and whispering _dilitírio_ at just the right time.

God, the horrified _look_ on the bastard’s face before his programming kicked in. Serves him right for getting Jeff called in on a weekend.

“You got him,” says Nick, clapping as Jeff leads their prize back to their temporary apartment. “See? Pony up the money.”

“We never _bet_ on anything,” Mike huffs, but he looks relieved to see the word still worked. Honestly, Jeff doesn’t know why he’s so paranoid. “Where did you find him?”

“Waiting outside a café of all places,” says Jeff, roughly shoving their prize into a chair. He just blinks at them, vacant and quiet. “Drinking a _kale shake_ , Jesus. Made me weep a little.”

“What a baby,” Nick snorts. “Come on, let’s get moving, the sooner we get back to base with him the better.”

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a moment, where did I put those cuffs—”

“And just where do you think you’re taking him?” comes a woman’s voice, heavily accented.

Jeff turns.

There’s a woman on the balcony, armored and glaring them all down like they’re the dirt on her shiny, shiny boots. There’s a golden lasso hanging from her hip, and her eyes burn like fire.

Nick snorts out a laugh. “That’s none of your business, lady,” he says, arrogant as hell, calmly drawing his gun and shooting at her in one fluid motion.

Something goes _ping_ , and suddenly the bullet’s embedded in the wall right behind _Nick_. The woman is—unharmed, somehow, her hand’s gone up supernaturally fast, what the fuck, she _deflected_ that bullet—

Mike whispers, behind them, “Oh, shit.”

“Let him go,” she says, calm.

“You _bitch_ ,” snarls Nick, firing again. This time she deflects it right into his gun barrel, and he screams, clutching his hand close to his chest.

Jeff curses, and fires at her. This bullet _pings_ away into the wall again, and Jeff barely has time to think _Oh, fuck_ before everything goes straight to hell in a handbasket.

\--

Steve comes to in the middle of a trashy motel room with bullet holes in the plaster and three unconscious men on the floor.

Also, Diana in the middle of it all, saying to someone on the phone, “—the Villa Corona motel. Yes, thank you, please come by as soon as possible.” She places it onto a desk, and breathes sadly out.

“Diana?” he says, heart beating fast against his chest, as he tries to stand.

Diana whips around, and her smile is so relieved and happy that it breaks Steve’s heart. “Steve!” she says, and quick as a flash she’s catching him before his knees can give out from under him, the two of them lowering themselves to the floor in a much more dignified manner than Steve’s knees initially planned. “You’re all right—did they hurt you?”

“What happened?” he asks, gripping on to her arms, terror building in his chest.

Diana’s brow creases. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks.

“Waiting outside a café for you,” says Steve. “This guy comes up, and we’re talking about the weather, and then he said— _something_ , I don’t know, I can’t remember what it was, and the next thing I know I’m here.” He huffs out a shaky breath, and says, “Did I—Did I do anything? Did I—”

“You didn’t,” Diana assures him, and Steve sags against her in relief.

“How’d you find me?” he asks.

“I asked around,” she says, and wraps her arms around him, gentle and warm, as he shakes apart. “It’s all right, you’re all right, I’m here. You’re safe. We need to get out of here before the police get here.”

He lets her haul him back up to his feet, and they haul ass out of the room and down the fire escape, as far away as they can get from the motel and the unconscious men. He does it on autopilot, brain still reeling from the code word, panic still clawing at his chest and his throat.

He’d been safe. He’d been _happy._ He’d been _okay_ , he’d learned how to use Netflix and listen to podcasts and Katie had promised to show him how to make potato pancakes and—

“Steve. _Steve._ ”

“I have to go,” says Steve. “If I—If I stay there’s no telling who LexCorp will send next. He doesn’t—I’m an _investment_ , he’s not gonna let me go easily—”

Diana shakes her head. Her grip is loose enough that he could break out of it, if he wanted to.

He doesn’t know if he wants to.

“Luthor will not harm you again,” she says, thunder and lightning in her eyes. “I will not allow him to lay his hands on you, or to send any of his thugs to do his dirty work for him. I will not allow _anyone_ to drag you back into that existence.”

“They’re going to try,” says Steve, bleakly. “They won’t stop trying. God, Diana, I’m so sorry.” There’s no other course, there’s no other way, he’ll have to leave, he wants to stay so badly his heart aches with the yearning—

Diana’s lips press together. Then she pulls one end of her lasso out, wraps it around her wrist.

“I swear to you,” she says, her voice ringing with conviction and _truth_ , “no one will make you their weapon ever again. _I will not let them._ ”

There is something comforting, about the truth of her vow.

“Diana,” he says, quiet.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” she confesses. “I know that I could bear the loss of you, I’ve done as much before, but it isn’t something I want to go through again.”

He breathes out, lets the words settle in his heart. He holds her close, and she holds him close, and he rests her forehead against hers. He takes the lasso from her wrist, wraps it around his own, and says, “You’re not going to lose me.”

Diana breathes out, relieved.

“I mean I’m still terrified,” Steve adds, “and I don’t know if this is the best idea, actually now that I think about it, it is maybe not the best idea, but neither was my idea of getting the hell out of here like my ass got set on fire—”

“You should probably take the lasso of Hestia off your wrist now,” says Diana.

“The lasso of who now,” says Steve. “That’s weirdly familiar. Also this really weird hot sensation is familiar too. Wait, I didn’t mean to say that—”

\--

iv. The thing is, Monty had Diana Prince pegged since the moment he first saw her in the museum, all dressed up in red like a queen.

How could he not? His da had made sure Monty and his siblings knew who saved the world, near the end of the First World War. He even had a picture of her and his war buddies on the mantle, and sometimes would stop for a moment and just _look_ at it.

Monty’s still got the picture. He’d shown it to Diana himself, and she’d smiled sadly at him and said that he had Charlie’s eyes, even his singing voice. Which seemed like a right insult to his da’s singing.

Anyway, so Diana’s not dead, and so Diana’s a superhero, and so aliens are real and a man dresses up like a bat in Gotham for the sole purpose of showing lowlifes what’s what, and so other dead men have come back to life and apparently been shaping world history behind the scenes. Monty has long since stopped expecting the world to be normal, really. It just never wants to be, anymore.

Still, Monty’s not expecting to bump into dead Steve Trevor in the hallowed halls of the Louvre, his first day back after breaking his hip, _thank you Joe from Corporate you bastard_.

And he’s certainly not expecting dead Steve Trevor to say, politely, “Hey, you okay? You’re kind of staring at me.”

“The fuckin’ _hell_ , lad,” says Monty, distinctly aware that he is calling a man who participated in World War I a lad, “ _what are you doing here._ ”

“I work here,” says dead Steve Trevor. “I’m Diana’s new secretary.”

“The _fuck,_ ” says Monty, before he grabs hold of his da’s old war buddy and drags him into a closet, unmindful of Diana’s warning just two months ago about dead Steve Trevor not being so dead or himself. “You’re supposed to be _dead_. Or at least you’re not supposed to be hangin’ out in the Loov-rey like a tourist.”

Dead Steve Trevor stares at him. “Um,” he says. “Did. Did you know me?”

“Did I know you,” scoffs Monty. “No, but my da knew you, and I got a picture of you hangin’ in his old house, now _what the fuck._ ”

“Your da—who was he?” dead Steve Trevor asks him.

“Charlie,” says Monty.

“I have no idea who that is,” says dead Steve Trevor.

“Ain’t surprised, Diana told me ‘bout what happened to you ‘fore I got my hip broken,” says Monty. “And that was two months back, so. _What the hell, man._ ”

“She did, huh,” says Steve. Jesus Christ. “I’m a little better now, I swear. I’m not going to up and murder anybody.”

“That ain’t what worries me, lad,” Monty mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He does feel assured, though, because when he’d last heard anything about poor dead Steve Trevor he was some bastard’s unlucky murder puppet.

“I’m at least a hundred years older than you are,” says Steve, sounding offended.

“Sure don’t look it, you look more like a bairn to me,” says Monty, squinting at him. He looks thirty at _most_. “All right. Where’s Diana?”

“Officially, doing an appraisal,” says Steve, narrowing his eyes at him. “Unofficially, did you hear the news about a snake-haired woman petrifying people in rural Greece?”

“I thought that was just _rumors_ the kids were spreadin’ on their sites for a giggle,” says Monty, voice pitching high. Steve makes a frantic abortive gesture, and Monty lowers his voice to hiss, “Are you tellin’ me the lass went off to fight _Medusa_?”

“Yeah, she did,” says Steve. “She’ll be back by tonight.”

“Three years ago I’d have said you were pullin’ my leg,” says Monty. “But, y’know what? If aliens can fly about like they own the damn place, fine, there’s snake-haired women runnin’ around too. Why the fuck not.”

“You’re adjusting really well to this,” Steve remarks, which, no fucking shit.

“World’s had a long and strange few years, lad,” Monty sighs. “Now. You said she’d be coming back tonight?”

“Yeah,” says Steve.

“What cover story did you work out with her?”

“Off on an acquisition in Turkey,” says Steve.

“Right, you’re damn lucky I got myself a degree in history when I was a wee little bairn myself and more gumption than you,” says Monty. “All right, Turkey, huh?”

\--

Diana shows back up that very night, no worse for the wear.

Monty grabs hold of her arm and drags her into a closet too.

“ _Snake-haired women,_ ” he says.

“Fairly easy to take care of,” says Diana, with a shrug. “I had a reflective shield. She could turn anyone who looked at her into stone. The tricky part was avoiding the snakes’ venom.”

“Every damn time,” Monty mutters. “Also, did you hire my da’s war buddy?”

“Yes,” says Diana.

“You didn’t even have the grace to leave me a tip!”

“I called you,” Diana points out, taking his hand off hers and crossing her arms, glaring him down. “I left five messages on your phone. And three on your answering machine.”

An awkward silence falls over the two of them, and Monty shuffles his feet a little and says, “Well, I’ve been a tad occupied, lately, myself.”

Diana lets out a long sigh, and massages her temples. “You lost your phone and broke your answering machine,” she says.

“Yes, okay, let’s go with that,” says Monty. It’s more like he broke his phone and lost his answering machine after tossing it out the window, but the result’s the same in any case. “Okay. So. Dead Steve Trevor’s hangin’ ‘round now.”

“Yes,” says Diana.

“Are you two—”

“That is none of your business, Monty,” says Diana, narrowing her eyes at him. “We live together, yes. There is no more you need to know beyond that.”

“Yeah, but the interns think you’re makin’ the two-backed beast every night now,” says Monty, and Diana heaves a great big sigh and looks up to the ceiling as if to call upon one of her gods for strength to not murder anybody. “‘Cept maybe Jimmy, or James or whatever he’s callin’ himself. The wee lad thinks you’re exes who hate each other.”

“I didn’t realize you were eavesdropping on the interns’ conversations now,” says Diana.

“That’s what I’ve been doin’ for years around this joint,” says Monty. “I’m old and I ain’t touchin’ that Net-pics shit with a ten-foot pole. Gotta cook up my own entertainment somehow.”

“Netflix,” Diana corrects, patiently. “Did you drag me in here to tell me what the interns thought?”

“I dragged you in here to tell you what my dear dead da would say in situations like this,” says Monty. “Somethin’ like _I’ll help you cook up an alibi for what the hell a dead man is doin’ lolly-gaggin’ ‘round a lady’s office_.”

“He’s my secretary,” says Diana, with a gentle smile like this is funny to her.

“Ain’t much of a secretary,” says Monty, skeptical.

“You’d be surprised,” says Diana. “I do have a meeting I need to get to, Monty.”

“Beg pardon for makin’ you late, lass,” Monty sighs, opening the door so Diana can step through, smoothing out her skirt. “But if you and your non-dead lad need any help, you just drop by the janitor’s closet. East wing. If I’m not there drop a note, I’ll get it sooner or later.”

“I appreciate the offer,” says Diana, dryly. “And, Monty?”

Monty winces. “I’ll get a new phone,” he says.

\--

v. Claire gets her package on a Friday night. The courier smiles at her, and she smiles back, picks up the box and shuts the door.

Her younger sister’s calling again from Gotham, no doubt to complain about running a business in the middle of _Gotham City_. Claire wonders what she’s going to hear about this time, the Batman crashing a party and punching a corrupt senator in the face.

She snorts out a laugh. She’s pretty sure that wouldn’t be his style, but the mental image is funny enough in itself.

She lets the call go to voicemail, as she unpacks the contents of the box. Here are her old books, from when she was a bright-eyed college student hoping to become a nurse, one day. Most of them aren’t too out of date, and she can slide on by with them for her upcoming exams. The ones that are, she places under her cactus.

The photo doesn’t catch her eye at first—it’s at the very bottom of the box, with the rest of her great-uncle’s things. She doesn’t know what kind of academic interest Steve might have in some random pilot’s stuff, but hey, it’s not her place to ask.

It isn’t much, is the thing. He had a compass, some maps, some ciphers, a notebook that he’d abandoned during the war and that her gran had kept. Claire can’t really see the academic value in any of them, honestly, but hey, maybe he’s doing qualitative research, or a case study.

Then she takes the photo out of the box.

It’s just an old, black-and-white photo, with five people looking straight at the camera. The paper’s gone yellow over time, some of the finer details fading away.

But the faces haven’t faded, and she’s staring at them now.

That’s Diana. That’s _Diana_ , in the center, wearing vaguely familiar armor (something tugs on her memory, something like the shaky cellphone footage of that fight with that huge goddamn _beast_ in Gotham) and holding a shield and what the _fuck_ is going on here. And beside her is—

“The _hell_ ,” she says aloud, staring at Steve Trevor’s face, looking back at her from a faded, yellowed photograph. _I’m very interested in World War I._ Well, no fucking shit, here he is staring out at her from a photograph from _19-fucking-18._

She slumps into her chair, her head spinning. She lets her head fall back so she can look up at the ceiling.

Her phone pings with a text. Claire reaches over, slides her thumb across the screen to read it: _call me back, sis!!!!!_

Typical Val, coming in with her exclamation points and her excitement when Claire’s world has just been flipped upside down. She sighs, and texts, _little busy sorting through care package val._

_aww ok,_ Val sends back, after minutes. _call me back tom y/n??? gonna go to work in 2 mins._

_i will,_ Claire promises. She needs someone who she knows, for a fact, is completely normal, and not somehow an ageless immortal being who’s been letting her sleep in her apartment intermittently, or her own not-dead great-uncle. If the Steve Trevor she met in Diana’s apartment even is her great-uncle Steve Trevor born in the late 1880s, which is _fucking insane_ , Claire, that’s conspiracy theory territory.

She stares at the photo again, rubs at her eyes, almost expecting the two familiar faces to be replaced by new ones when she opens her eyes again.

Nope. They’re still there.

“Goddammit,” she says to herself.

\--

She’s scrolling through her Facebook feed the next day when she sees the video Val’s shared. It’s a fuzzy, grainy cellphone video, the title of which reads like an attention-seeking YouTuber’s idea of hooking in viewers.

_Superhero Fights Medusa in Greece!!!_

She taps on the video, expecting to get a laugh or two out of it. Most likely it’s just some kid staging a superhero fight, getting a friend of theirs to rampage around on camera with some bad wig with plastic snakes.

Instead she sees an armored woman deflecting blasts of venom away from her with a shield, and a woman with real snakes protruding from her goddamn _head_ screaming angrily at her. The camera’s too shaky for her to really be able to tell what the hell is going on for most of the fight, but for one shining moment she catches sight of the woman’s armor.

She almost drops her coffee.

She’s seen that armor before.

“What the _hell_ ,” she says, out loud.

\--

Diana opens the door.

Claire says, “Explain to me how a woman in her late twenties in 1918 can still look like she’s in her late twenties almost a hundred years later, because I can’t think of any possible medical explanation.”

“Oh, your parents sent you the picture,” says Diana, stepping aside to let her into the apartment.

Claire stares at her for a second, then lets out a long breath and steps inside. Steve’s on the couch, reading Edsel’s _The Monuments Men_ , and he glances up to wave at her.

“Also,” says Claire, pointing at him and turning to Diana, “explain to me what the hell a guy who looks exactly like my great-uncle is doing on your couch, because I am coming up with absolutely _nothing_ at the moment.”

Steve says, “Uh, what.”

\--

The explanations take all afternoon, mostly because Claire wants more details—how this is possible, how it happened, what happened then and what happened next. Steve’s patchwork memory isn’t exactly the best, but Diana’s a good enough storyteller to more than make up for any details he misses in his skeletal telling.

“So,” says Claire, slowly, her fingers curled around a cup of coffee, “you’re a demigod warrior Amazon.”

“Yes,” says Diana.

“And you,” says Claire, turning to Steve, “are my great-uncle, who’s apparently been a brainwashed assassin for the past century or so, and you only _just_ got out.”

“Yeah, now that you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous,” says Steve, rubbing the back of his neck, the same way Claire herself does when _she’s_ nervous.

“It _is_ ridiculous,” says Claire. “But—Jesus, so were aliens and resurrections, and Superman’s an alien who came back from the dead months ago, so.” She rubs at her temples, and says, “Anyway, I used to live in New York, I’ve seen some weird shit. But I have to admit, this takes the cake.”

“You get used to it,” says Steve, mouth twisting into a small smile. “I did.”

“When you live as long as I have, very little can surprise you anymore,” says Diana.

“I surprised you,” says Steve.

“I said _very little_ ,” says Diana, with a huff, turning to look at Steve with a little smile, and a light in her eyes that Claire’s seen before, the same light she would sometimes catch in her parents’ eyes when they looked at each other. “You always surprise me.”

“Flatterer,” Steve teases, propping his cheek up on his hand.

“If you guys are done flirting,” says Claire, “uh, Steve? Great-Uncle Steve?”

Steve shakes his head. “Just Steve’s fine,” he says.

“Right,” says Claire, with a sigh. “Okay. Technically I shouldn’t be doing this, but, well.” She pulls out Steve’s things from her bag, and a clean pad of white paper. “I used to be a nurse before I went back to school to become a doctor, so I’ve already got some experience with specialized diets.” She looks up at him and says, “Did you say repeated freezing and unfreezing?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Steve.

“Putting aside the part where you probably shouldn’t have survived that,” says Claire, scribbling something on the paper, “that’s bound to seriously fuck up your stomach, on top of the malnourishment and the poor diet. Human beings are not meant to be frozen, unfrozen, and refrozen like leftovers.”

“I’m glad we can agree on that,” says Diana, steel in her voice. “ _No one_ should have to go through any of it.”

Steve lets out a long sigh. Then he pauses and says, hopefully, “Wait, does this mean you’re gonna find a way to make sure I can eat something that doesn’t taste like cardboard?”

“I can try,” says Claire, finishing off her list and tearing the paper off the top, handing it to Steve for him to read. It’s a short list. “But for now, and for maybe about six months, stick to this diet. Let me know if you’re going to introduce anything not on the list because chances are, it won’t go well.”

“Thank you, Claire,” says Diana, taking her hand. “I— _We_ are truly grateful for your help.”

“I used to be a nurse,” says Claire, slipping her hand out of Diana’s. “I never could turn away when people were hurt.”

“That,” says Diana, looking back at Steve before she looks back at Claire, who’s getting to her feet, “is what makes a good person.” She stands, and says, “Let me take you back to your apartment, Claire. It is the least I could do.”

“I’ll come with,” says Steve, standing up and tucking the list into a jean pocket. Claire hopes to god that her habit of forgetting things in her pocket didn’t come from him. “We can talk, and you can catch me up with how the rest of the family’s getting on.” He pauses, then adds, “Actually, you can tell me who they are, because. My memory’s kind of shit, and I’d like to know.”

“Well,” says Claire, hoisting her bag up, now much lighter than before, “why not?”

**Author's Note:**

> translation notes:  
>  _Parlez-vous français, monsieur?_ \- Do you speak French, sir?  
>  _Je parle mieux anglais que français._ \- I speak English better than French.


End file.
